With the 2018 Winter Olympics fast becoming a distant memory—and winter officially over in one more day—I'm using this Curio to make one last plea that we resurrect the best winter sport of all time: acroski. Also known as ski ballet, acroski was part of a movement in the 1970s to make alpine skiing more fun and creative. To combat the monotony of ski races, a younger generation of skiers came up with freestyle or "hotdog" skiing competitions. They consisted of three components: moguls, aerials, and ski ballet. Competitors would start at the top of the mountain and execute crazy tricks while coming down deathly-steep mogul fields. Then they would perform acrobatic flips and twists while going over massive aerial jumps. Finally, they would finish at the bottom of the hill performing dance-like tricks on the flatlands. Judges scored each section, and a new sport seemed on the verge of taking over alpine skiing. By the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, all three disciplines were added as demonstration events. In 1992, moguls became a medal event. Aerials followed in 1996. But ski ballet, with its figure-skating-esque leaps—including axels and Salchows—never made it to the real Olympics. Attempts to rebrand the sport as acroski in the early 2000s didn't help. Today, devotees of ski ballet are miffed that their sport, essentially figure skating on skis, has all but died out. I agree this is a crime. How can you not want more sports with costumes, "kiss and cry" areas, and this?

With the 2018 Winter Olympics fast becoming a distant memory—and winter officially over in one more day—I'm using this Curio to make one last plea that we resurrect the best winter sport of all time: acroski. Also known as ski ballet, acroski was part of a movement in the 1970s to make alpine skiing more fun and creative. To combat the monotony of ski races, a younger generation of skiers came up with freestyle or "hotdog" skiing competitions. They consisted of three components: moguls, aerials, and ski ballet. Competitors would start at the top of the mountain and execute crazy tricks while coming down deathly-steep mogul fields. Then they would perform acrobatic flips and twists while going over massive aerial jumps. Finally, they would finish at the bottom of the hill performing dance-like tricks on the flatlands. Judges scored each section, and a new sport seemed on the verge of taking over alpine skiing. By the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, all three disciplines were added as demonstration events. In 1992, moguls became a medal event. Aerials followed in 1996. But ski ballet, with its figure-skating-esque leaps—including axels and Salchows—never made it to the real Olympics. Attempts to rebrand the sport as acroski in the early 2000s didn't help. Today, devotees of ski ballet are miffed that their sport, essentially figure skating on skis, has all but died out. I agree this is a crime. How can you not want more sports with costumes, "kiss and cry" areas, and this?

Exoplanet hunters are moving beyond simply finding new planets into trying to know what they look like and whether there's surface or subsurface activity. Find out more in today's Nerdy Curio from 60-Second Science.

Exoplanet hunters are moving beyond simply finding new planets into trying to know what they look like and whether there's surface or subsurface activity. Find out more in today's Nerdy Curio from 60-Second Science.

When physicist James Clerk Maxwell and photographer Thomas Sutton put their brains—and color slides—together, the world of photography was never the same. In 1855, Maxwell hypothesized every hue on the visible spectrum could be created through combinations of red, green, and blue light. After experimenting on his own with projections while teaching at King's College in London, he recruited his fellow professor Thomas Sutton to test his theory in 1861. Sutton, who passed away on this day in 1875, made red, green, and blue exposures on glass plates of a tartan ribbon under Maxwell's supervision; the three images were then projected and combined into the above full-color photo. It was the first of its kind, and Maxwell and Sutton's RGB process would also be used by the first professional color printing service in 1930, known as the British VIVEX brand. As for the plates, they're permanently located at Maxwell's house—now known as the James Clerk Maxwell Foundation—where they're tied to history!

When physicist James Clerk Maxwell and photographer Thomas Sutton put their brains—and color slides—together, the world of photography was never the same. In 1855, Maxwell hypothesized every hue on the visible spectrum could be created through combinations of red, green, and blue light. After experimenting on his own with projections while teaching at King's College in London, he recruited his fellow professor Thomas Sutton to test his theory in 1861. Sutton, who passed away on this day in 1875, made red, green, and blue exposures on glass plates of a tartan ribbon under Maxwell's supervision; the three images were then projected and combined into the above full-color photo. It was the first of its kind, and Maxwell and Sutton's RGB process would also be used by the first professional color printing service in 1930, known as the British VIVEX brand. As for the plates, they're permanently located at Maxwell's house—now known as the James Clerk Maxwell Foundation—where they're tied to history!

A colony of fantastical tree houses perches among the pine forest of Northern Sweden.

We've all dreamed about having our own perfect treehouse. Treehotel is a cluster of tree house suites located in Harads, northern Sweden, that specializes in making those dreams a reality—at least temporarily. The resort manages seven sophisticated treetop rentals available for short-term stays, each with its own unique theme and structure.

Take Treehotel's poster boy suite, for example: the fittingly-named Mirrorcube. The illusory accommodation stands upon an aluminum frame wrapped around a tree trunk, and is completely covered with reflective glass that camouflages it from passersby. With an excellent view of underlying woodlands and accommodations for two, it's a solid choice for some romantic aurora watching.

The streamlined Mirrorcube's opposite is The Nest, a tangled roost packing a deceptively well-furnished interior. Another, The 7th Room, features netting with a pine growing through it: a clever combination of patio and canopy. A Treehotel tree house that's far less in harmony with its coniferous surroundings is the alien-themed UFO, which features a retractable stepway straight out of a sci-fi movie.

The tree houses are owned and operated by Kent Lindvall and his wife, Britta. When their conventional hostel failed to finance itself, the two were inspired by the ecological message in director Jonas Selberg Augustsén's documentary The Tree Lover to create Treehotel in 2010. The film had been shot near their old hostel, so the Linvalls set about inviting outside architects and contractors to build a colony of tree houses—forbidding them from tearing down a single tree.

And the Lindvalls' colony is expected to grow. With the addition of each new suite, more attention is drawn to the site; and in the wake of the added attention come more architects seeking to one-up their predecessors. So even if Treehotel doesn't have your special dream pad up in the limbs, it's only a matter of time before it does.

Below: shots of Treehotel's different "treerooms," including: The Mirrorcube, The Bird's Nest, The 7th Room's patio net, The 7th Room's interior, and The UFO.

A colony of fantastical tree houses perches among the pine forest of Northern Sweden.

We've all dreamed about having our own perfect treehouse. Treehotel is a cluster of tree house suites located in Harads, northern Sweden, that specializes in making those dreams a reality—at least temporarily. The resort manages seven sophisticated treetop rentals available for short-term stays, each with its own unique theme and structure.

Take Treehotel's poster boy suite, for example: the fittingly-named Mirrorcube. The illusory accommodation stands upon an aluminum frame wrapped around a tree trunk, and is completely covered with reflective glass that camouflages it from passersby. With an excellent view of underlying woodlands and accommodations for two, it's a solid choice for some romantic aurora watching.

The streamlined Mirrorcube's opposite is The Nest, a tangled roost packing a deceptively well-furnished interior. Another, The 7th Room, features netting with a pine growing through it: a clever combination of patio and canopy. A Treehotel tree house that's far less in harmony with its coniferous surroundings is the alien-themed UFO, which features a retractable stepway straight out of a sci-fi movie.

The tree houses are owned and operated by Kent Lindvall and his wife, Britta. When their conventional hostel failed to finance itself, the two were inspired by the ecological message in director Jonas Selberg Augustsén's documentary The Tree Lover to create Treehotel in 2010. The film had been shot near their old hostel, so the Linvalls set about inviting outside architects and contractors to build a colony of tree houses—forbidding them from tearing down a single tree.

And the Lindvalls' colony is expected to grow. With the addition of each new suite, more attention is drawn to the site; and in the wake of the added attention come more architects seeking to one-up their predecessors. So even if Treehotel doesn't have your special dream pad up in the limbs, it's only a matter of time before it does.

Below: shots of Treehotel's different "treerooms," including: The Mirrorcube, The Bird's Nest, The 7th Room's patio net, The 7th Room's interior, and The UFO.

Nobody placed a woman on a pedestal quite like French-born sculptor Gaston Lachaise did. Born on this day in 1882, Lachaise fell in love with a curvaceous American woman named Isabel Dutaud Nagle, before immigrating to the States to pursue, marry, and sculpt her for the rest of his life. Standing Woman embodies Lachaise's impassioned idealization of Nagle: formed from bronze, her substantial features balance across her, all supported elegantly upon her extended toes. Lachaise's bodacious vision not only cites his adoration of Nagle, but also symbolizes the artist's desire to move away from tradition—to overcome the female form idealized in Rome and in Renaissance paintings. Standing Woman exhibits the precision and dignity of classical sculpting, but applies those traits to a figure reminiscent of a swollen, ancient fertility figure; a deity perhaps. In a cute way, Lachaise began to refer to Nagle simply as "Woman" when donning his artist persona. In his own words, she was: "the Goddess [he was] searching to express in all things."

Nobody placed a woman on a pedestal quite like French-born sculptor Gaston Lachaise did. Born on this day in 1882, Lachaise fell in love with a curvaceous American woman named Isabel Dutaud Nagle, before immigrating to the States to pursue, marry, and sculpt her for the rest of his life. Standing Woman embodies Lachaise's impassioned idealization of Nagle: formed from bronze, her substantial features balance across her, all supported elegantly upon her extended toes. Lachaise's bodacious vision not only cites his adoration of Nagle, but also symbolizes the artist's desire to move away from tradition—to overcome the female form idealized in Rome and in Renaissance paintings. Standing Woman exhibits the precision and dignity of classical sculpting, but applies those traits to a figure reminiscent of a swollen, ancient fertility figure; a deity perhaps. In a cute way, Lachaise began to refer to Nagle simply as "Woman" when donning his artist persona. In his own words, she was: "the Goddess [he was] searching to express in all things."

Sure, Hendrix smashed guitars—but did he ever balance upon an upright bass? This week in 1956, the first major rock musical film Rock Around the Clock hit theaters, a flick capitalizing on the success of Bill Haley & His Comets' breakout single of the same name. The thing is, the song had only become a chart-topper after first featuring in the opening credits of another movie, the teenage-delinquency drama, Blackboard Jungle. Originally fated to the B-side of a failing 45" single, Clock seemed destined for obscurity until a youth named Peter Ford flipped the record over and struck buried treasure. With a few cracks of the snare and a tension-building count of the clock, comes not a bang, but a hypnotic repetition of sax, drums, and Haley's jovial chorus. By the time the guitar solo kicks in, hips are jerking in time to the snares and heads are bobbing to the sax. Lil' Ford showed the tune to his poppa, Glenn Ford, an actor starring in Blackboard Jungle. Thanks to Glenn Ford, the song found its way into the film, which ended up exciting teenage riots across schools and cinemas—causing the government to promptly ban the movie!

Sure, Hendrix smashed guitars—but did he ever balance upon an upright bass? This week in 1956, the first major rock musical film Rock Around the Clock hit theaters, a flick capitalizing on the success of Bill Haley & His Comets' breakout single of the same name. The thing is, the song had only become a chart-topper after first featuring in the opening credits of another movie, the teenage-delinquency drama, Blackboard Jungle. Originally fated to the B-side of a failing 45" single, Clock seemed destined for obscurity until a youth named Peter Ford flipped the record over and struck buried treasure. With a few cracks of the snare and a tension-building count of the clock, comes not a bang, but a hypnotic repetition of sax, drums, and Haley's jovial chorus. By the time the guitar solo kicks in, hips are jerking in time to the snares and heads are bobbing to the sax. Lil' Ford showed the tune to his poppa, Glenn Ford, an actor starring in Blackboard Jungle. Thanks to Glenn Ford, the song found its way into the film, which ended up exciting teenage riots across schools and cinemas—causing the government to promptly ban the movie!

She may be known today for her pioneering work with the concept of growth mindset, but Carol Dweck was once a self-proclaimed "fixed mindsetter." The world-renowned psychologist and author of Mindset: The New Psychology of Success admits that, growing up, she was terrified of her perceived limitations. She resisted entering into new situations unless she knew she would thrive. Her desire to address this within herself intersected with her graduate studies at Yale. There, she became interested in identifying why some people flourished in the face of obstacles, while others folded. In this Curious Conversation, Dweck discusses these findings and other factors that led her to write Mindset—a book that's enabled millions to view their abilities not as limited, but as traits that can be nurtured and developed over time. She shares strategies on dealing with situations when a fixed mindset may creep back in, including a personal anecdote about Mindset's initial reception. With her trademark grace and candor, Dweck reminds us that mindset can propel us forward in every area of life, be it school, business, sports, relationships, or lifelong learning!

For more insights from Carol about harnessing a growth mindset, watch the full Curious Conversation by clicking the image below.

She may be known today for her pioneering work with the concept of growth mindset, but Carol Dweck was once a self-proclaimed "fixed mindsetter." The world-renowned psychologist and author of Mindset: The New Psychology of Success admits that, growing up, she was terrified of her perceived limitations. She resisted entering into new situations unless she knew she would thrive. Her desire to address this within herself intersected with her graduate studies at Yale. There, she became interested in identifying why some people flourished in the face of obstacles, while others folded. In this Curious Conversation, Dweck discusses these findings and other factors that led her to write Mindset—a book that's enabled millions to view their abilities not as limited, but as traits that can be nurtured and developed over time. She shares strategies on dealing with situations when a fixed mindset may creep back in, including a personal anecdote about Mindset's initial reception. With her trademark grace and candor, Dweck reminds us that mindset can propel us forward in every area of life, be it school, business, sports, relationships, or lifelong learning!

For more insights from Carol about harnessing a growth mindset, watch the full Curious Conversation by clicking the image below.

Mary J. Blige is known for bringing the house down when she sings, so it's no wonder her performance of Mighty River at the Oscars was a showstopper. Blige arrived onstage solo, using her powerful voice to lead the soulful piano ballad nominated for Best Original Song from the film Mudbound. Mighty River's themes of love overcoming racial boundaries might have been enough reason for Blige to make a memorable appearance at the awards ceremony, but it was far from the only reason she was there; Blige also played the role of Florence Jackson in the film about two World War II veterans—one black and one white—dealing with segregation and PTSD in Mississippi. Blige was nominated for [Best] Actress in a Supporting Role, becoming the first person ever nominated for both Original Song and Supporting Actress in the same year. Those are definitely reasons enough to bring out the gospel-influenced choir and celebrate with a few choruses of Mighty River!

Mary J. Blige is known for bringing the house down when she sings, so it's no wonder her performance of Mighty River at the Oscars was a showstopper. Blige arrived onstage solo, using her powerful voice to lead the soulful piano ballad nominated for Best Original Song from the film Mudbound. Mighty River's themes of love overcoming racial boundaries might have been enough reason for Blige to make a memorable appearance at the awards ceremony, but it was far from the only reason she was there; Blige also played the role of Florence Jackson in the film about two World War II veterans—one black and one white—dealing with segregation and PTSD in Mississippi. Blige was nominated for [Best] Actress in a Supporting Role, becoming the first person ever nominated for both Original Song and Supporting Actress in the same year. Those are definitely reasons enough to bring out the gospel-influenced choir and celebrate with a few choruses of Mighty River!

It identified a deep and growing racial divide in America. Fifty years later, how much has changed?

President Lyndon Johnson created the Kerner Commission after race riots swept American cities in the late 1960s. The Commission's findings, published in March 1968, blamed white racism and discriminatory policies for the unrest, and called for comprehensive reform. On the fiftieth anniversary of the Kerner Report, a new study concludes we still have a long way to go.

In 1967, Detroit was torn apart by five days of race riots, leaving 43 people dead and over 1,400 buildings destroyed. Detroit wasn't the only city to burn: Newark and Watts were also ravaged by urban disorder. A week after the Detroit violence, Lyndon Johnson created the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders, known as the Kerner Commission, to determine the causes of the unrest.

Johnson was expecting the Commission to recommend reforms, but to also commend his social programs and Civil Rights measures. He packed the group with allies; in Johnson fashion, he warned one member that if he wasn't loyal, he would cut off an extremity with a pocketknife. But when the Commission sent researchers to the cities where the riots occurred, they were shocked by the level of poverty and hopelessness they found. They chronicled high levels of discrimination, unemployment, and police violence.

When the Kerner Report was published, its findings were stark and uncompromising. The commission blamed white racism for the unrest, declaring, "Our Nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white—separate and unequal". Commissioners called for increased spending on education, employment, and housing.

Now, a new book offers a bleak assessment of how far we've come since Kerner. Healing a Divided Society found that there was some progress following the Kerner Report, but conditions for African Americans have worsened again. The authors point to increased school segregation, the growing gap between rich and poor, and mass incarceration. Healing a Divided Society was co-edited by former senator Fred Harris, the only living member of the original commission. Harris told NPR, "Whoever thought that 50 years later, we'd still be talking about the same things?"

It remains to be seen how—or if— Washington will respond to the new findings. Fifty years ago, Johnson was furious about the Kerner conclusions because they didn't credit his reforms; he barely acknowledged the report. But that didn't stop word from getting out: the report became an overnight sensation, selling one million copies in two weeks—an extraordinary response to a government report.

It identified a deep and growing racial divide in America. Fifty years later, how much has changed?

President Lyndon Johnson created the Kerner Commission after race riots swept American cities in the late 1960s. The Commission's findings, published in March 1968, blamed white racism and discriminatory policies for the unrest, and called for comprehensive reform. On the fiftieth anniversary of the Kerner Report, a new study concludes we still have a long way to go.

In 1967, Detroit was torn apart by five days of race riots, leaving 43 people dead and over 1,400 buildings destroyed. Detroit wasn't the only city to burn: Newark and Watts were also ravaged by urban disorder. A week after the Detroit violence, Lyndon Johnson created the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders, known as the Kerner Commission, to determine the causes of the unrest.

Johnson was expecting the Commission to recommend reforms, but to also commend his social programs and Civil Rights measures. He packed the group with allies; in Johnson fashion, he warned one member that if he wasn't loyal, he would cut off an extremity with a pocketknife. But when the Commission sent researchers to the cities where the riots occurred, they were shocked by the level of poverty and hopelessness they found. They chronicled high levels of discrimination, unemployment, and police violence.

When the Kerner Report was published, its findings were stark and uncompromising. The commission blamed white racism for the unrest, declaring, "Our Nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white—separate and unequal". Commissioners called for increased spending on education, employment, and housing.

Now, a new book offers a bleak assessment of how far we've come since Kerner. Healing a Divided Society found that there was some progress following the Kerner Report, but conditions for African Americans have worsened again. The authors point to increased school segregation, the growing gap between rich and poor, and mass incarceration. Healing a Divided Society was co-edited by former senator Fred Harris, the only living member of the original commission. Harris told NPR, "Whoever thought that 50 years later, we'd still be talking about the same things?"

It remains to be seen how—or if— Washington will respond to the new findings. Fifty years ago, Johnson was furious about the Kerner conclusions because they didn't credit his reforms; he barely acknowledged the report. But that didn't stop word from getting out: the report became an overnight sensation, selling one million copies in two weeks—an extraordinary response to a government report.

Photos like this ravishing shot of Jupiter's south pole can provide perspective on our small earthly doings. Jovian 'Twilight Zone' was taken in early February by NASA's Juno spacecraft, during Juno's eleventh close flyby of the largest planet in our solar system. It was snapped 74,896 miles above the clouds that gather around the planet's polar region. The gas giant is twice as big as all the other planets combined and has at least 53 moons. That's not all: there is a storm on Jupiter called the Great Red Spot that is twice the size of the earth, and it has been roiling there for over a century. Savoring the wonder of these celestial bodies, which exist unfathomable distances away and neither know nor care about our tiny planet, gives us a brief respite from our daily cares—it may also prompt as many questions as it does awe. As Neil deGrasse Tyson reminds us: "The Universe is under no obligation to make sense to you." In a way, that's comforting, too.

Photos like this ravishing shot of Jupiter's south pole can provide perspective on our small earthly doings. Jovian 'Twilight Zone' was taken in early February by NASA's Juno spacecraft, during Juno's eleventh close flyby of the largest planet in our solar system. It was snapped 74,896 miles above the clouds that gather around the planet's polar region. The gas giant is twice as big as all the other planets combined and has at least 53 moons. That's not all: there is a storm on Jupiter called the Great Red Spot that is twice the size of the earth, and it has been roiling there for over a century. Savoring the wonder of these celestial bodies, which exist unfathomable distances away and neither know nor care about our tiny planet, gives us a brief respite from our daily cares—it may also prompt as many questions as it does awe. As Neil deGrasse Tyson reminds us: "The Universe is under no obligation to make sense to you." In a way, that's comforting, too.

Henri Michaux has been called the "French Kafka" and the "poet laureate of our insomnia," and we can see why in paintings like this 1981 untitled watercolor. Though we can discern the outlines of a human face, it is blurry and disembodied, dissolving at the edges into nothingness. The figure's wide eyes and tilted head make him seem more poignant than menacing, like a prisoner gazing out from his existential confinement. Michaux left university to become a merchant seaman, and wrote about his travels (A Barbarian in Asia is considered a classic). After his wife died in a fire in 1948, a devastated Michaux set off on a different kind of journey. He began taking mescaline and writing about his psychedelic episodes. He published twenty books of poetry and prose, but over time his focus turned to visual art. Explaining the transition from words to canvas, Michaux once said, "Can't you see that I paint in order to drop words, to stop the itching of how and why?" But the remarkable body of work he produced—including drawings, paintings, and calligraphy—and the many diverse topics he explored demonstrate that, words or not, Michaux never stopped feeling the itch of the how and why.

A retrospective of Michaux's work, Henri Michaux: The Other Side, will be at the Guggenheim Bilbao in Bilbao, Spain, through May 13th, 2018.

Henri Michaux has been called the "French Kafka" and the "poet laureate of our insomnia," and we can see why in paintings like this 1981 untitled watercolor. Though we can discern the outlines of a human face, it is blurry and disembodied, dissolving at the edges into nothingness. The figure's wide eyes and tilted head make him seem more poignant than menacing, like a prisoner gazing out from his existential confinement. Michaux left university to become a merchant seaman, and wrote about his travels (A Barbarian in Asia is considered a classic). After his wife died in a fire in 1948, a devastated Michaux set off on a different kind of journey. He began taking mescaline and writing about his psychedelic episodes. He published twenty books of poetry and prose, but over time his focus turned to visual art. Explaining the transition from words to canvas, Michaux once said, "Can't you see that I paint in order to drop words, to stop the itching of how and why?" But the remarkable body of work he produced—including drawings, paintings, and calligraphy—and the many diverse topics he explored demonstrate that, words or not, Michaux never stopped feeling the itch of the how and why.

A retrospective of Michaux's work, Henri Michaux: The Other Side, will be at the Guggenheim Bilbao in Bilbao, Spain, through May 13th, 2018.

You could probably only get one of this if you made a killing.
Remove the last three letters, and this (and its friends) might run you down in the street.
Remove the first three letters, and this is a great hunter.
Replace the second letter with an 'i', and if you had one of these, you could buy roughly 2,000 of the first word.

What is the original word?

Think you know the answer? Email support@curious.com with the subject "Teaser #129" and let us know, or check back next week to find out!

You could probably only get one of this if you made a killing.
Remove the last three letters, and this (and its friends) might run you down in the street.
Remove the first three letters, and this is a great hunter.
Replace the second letter with an 'i', and if you had one of these, you could buy roughly 2,000 of the first word.

What is the original word?

Think you know the answer? Email support@curious.com with the subject "Teaser #129" and let us know, or check back next week to find out!

Before she was spinning in Ibiza and attending the Met Gala wearing Louis Vuitton, musician Claire Boucher, a.k.a "Grimes," was no stranger to hardship. In 2012, her producers allotted her a measly month to produce an album and, after a few frenzied weeks locked in her darkened room, Boucher emerged with Visions—the electro-gothic album that elevated her to stardom. Its strongest hit, the dysphoric but catchy track Oblivion, provides a haunting depiction of the singer's own experiences as a survivor of sexual assault. Her vaporous vocals, childlike trilling, and pulsing synth loop transfix the listener like a Hitchcock thriller, while her tragic lyrics detail the guardedness, hyper-awareness, and loneliness wrought by ever-present trauma. But Boucher doesn't inspire horror for its own sake. Oblivion's corresponding music video was shot at a football game, showing Boucher singing and cheering alongside male spectators. The chest-thumping setting falls under the control of the camera, which remains trained on the unabashedly eccentric Boucher—creating a feeling of female empowerment in the form of comfort: the comfort of Boucher simply being herself, as a woman. In the face of such a hypermasculine display, even after what she'd endured, Boucher remains Boucher.

Before she was spinning in Ibiza and attending the Met Gala wearing Louis Vuitton, musician Claire Boucher, a.k.a "Grimes," was no stranger to hardship. In 2012, her producers allotted her a measly month to produce an album and, after a few frenzied weeks locked in her darkened room, Boucher emerged with Visions—the electro-gothic album that elevated her to stardom. Its strongest hit, the dysphoric but catchy track Oblivion, provides a haunting depiction of the singer's own experiences as a survivor of sexual assault. Her vaporous vocals, childlike trilling, and pulsing synth loop transfix the listener like a Hitchcock thriller, while her tragic lyrics detail the guardedness, hyper-awareness, and loneliness wrought by ever-present trauma. But Boucher doesn't inspire horror for its own sake. Oblivion's corresponding music video was shot at a football game, showing Boucher singing and cheering alongside male spectators. The chest-thumping setting falls under the control of the camera, which remains trained on the unabashedly eccentric Boucher—creating a feeling of female empowerment in the form of comfort: the comfort of Boucher simply being herself, as a woman. In the face of such a hypermasculine display, even after what she'd endured, Boucher remains Boucher.

Alice Austen would've had one amazing Instagram feed. Born on this day in 1866, Austen was a meticulous photographer by the age of 18, taking early documentary portraits of 19th-century life in New York. One of the most controversial aspects of her body of work has been her representation of LGBTQ people at the turn of the century; in the scandalous Trude & I, she and friend Gertrude Eccleston are smoking, wearing short petticoat skirts, and wrapping their arms around one another. Austen was playfully challenging Victorian conventions of gendered modesty, while embracing a queer identity—one that would complicate (and sometimes be omitted from) official records of her legacy. Only in recent years has Austen's estate acknowledged her queer body of work, and given it its proper place as part of the extensive legacy of an endlessly curious and experimental photographer.

Below: Austen and Tate together; two more Austen's images of LGBTQ relationships and gender performance.

Alice Austen would've had one amazing Instagram feed. Born on this day in 1866, Austen was a meticulous photographer by the age of 18, taking early documentary portraits of 19th-century life in New York. One of the most controversial aspects of her body of work has been her representation of LGBTQ people at the turn of the century; in the scandalous Trude & I, she and friend Gertrude Eccleston are smoking, wearing short petticoat skirts, and wrapping their arms around one another. Austen was playfully challenging Victorian conventions of gendered modesty, while embracing a queer identity—one that would complicate (and sometimes be omitted from) official records of her legacy. Only in recent years has Austen's estate acknowledged her queer body of work, and given it its proper place as part of the extensive legacy of an endlessly curious and experimental photographer.

Below: Austen and Tate together; two more Austen's images of LGBTQ relationships and gender performance.

She secured a seat on the Supreme Court against all odds—and has no intention of forfeiting it any time soon.

She just speaks her piece, keeps her peace. She's Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a.k.a "The Notorious R.B.G.," a Supreme Court Justice known for her collected restraint on the bench—and her soft-spoken but devastating dissents. Born this week in 1933, she's argued a half-dozen landmark cases and decided even more.

A Brooklyn native, Ginsburg cites her mother, Celia, as her inspiration—a brilliant woman forced into blue-collar work to send Ginsburg's uncle through college instead of herself. Invigorated by her mother's plight, Ginsburg attended Cornell, followed by Harvard Law School as just one of nine women in a class of 500. There, the dean's sexist chiding drove her to transfer to Columbia, where she finished top of her class while looking after her daughter and a husband battling cancer.

But Ginsburg's glowing recommendations from professors meant little to male employers when women comprised only three percent of the legal profession. After federal judges refused to grant her clerkships, a lower-ranking district court judge relented. She went on to teach at Rutgers and Columbia, while simultaneously serving as director of the Women's Rights Project of the American Civil Liberties Union. As director, she stood before the Supreme Court and argued six landmark gender-equality cases. One of her five victories granted widows the same Social Security benefits as widowers.

It was only a matter of time before she attracted the president's attention. In 1980, Jimmy Carter appointed her to the Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, where she served until President Bill Clinton selected her as the 107th Supreme Court Justice in 1993. Only the second female admitted, Ginsburg has made her voice heard in several crucial rulings, including: United States v. Virginia, where she wrote the majority decision that eradicated gender-exclusive admissions policies; Ledbetter v. Goodyear, where her dissent inspired the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, which streamlined pay discrimination claims for employees; and Obergefell v. Hodges, where she spearheaded the legalization of same-sex marriage nationwide.

At 85 years old and having survived cancer (twice), R.B.G. shows no signs of slowing down (just check out her workout regimen!). In her own words: "I will retire when it's time. And, when is it time? When I can't do the job full-steam." Mic drop.

She secured a seat on the Supreme Court against all odds—and has no intention of forfeiting it any time soon.

She just speaks her piece, keeps her peace. She's Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a.k.a "The Notorious R.B.G.," a Supreme Court Justice known for her collected restraint on the bench—and her soft-spoken but devastating dissents. Born this week in 1933, she's argued a half-dozen landmark cases and decided even more.

A Brooklyn native, Ginsburg cites her mother, Celia, as her inspiration—a brilliant woman forced into blue-collar work to send Ginsburg's uncle through college instead of herself. Invigorated by her mother's plight, Ginsburg attended Cornell, followed by Harvard Law School as just one of nine women in a class of 500. There, the dean's sexist chiding drove her to transfer to Columbia, where she finished top of her class while looking after her daughter and a husband battling cancer.

But Ginsburg's glowing recommendations from professors meant little to male employers when women comprised only three percent of the legal profession. After federal judges refused to grant her clerkships, a lower-ranking district court judge relented. She went on to teach at Rutgers and Columbia, while simultaneously serving as director of the Women's Rights Project of the American Civil Liberties Union. As director, she stood before the Supreme Court and argued six landmark gender-equality cases. One of her five victories granted widows the same Social Security benefits as widowers.

It was only a matter of time before she attracted the president's attention. In 1980, Jimmy Carter appointed her to the Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, where she served until President Bill Clinton selected her as the 107th Supreme Court Justice in 1993. Only the second female admitted, Ginsburg has made her voice heard in several crucial rulings, including: United States v. Virginia, where she wrote the majority decision that eradicated gender-exclusive admissions policies; Ledbetter v. Goodyear, where her dissent inspired the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, which streamlined pay discrimination claims for employees; and Obergefell v. Hodges, where she spearheaded the legalization of same-sex marriage nationwide.

At 85 years old and having survived cancer (twice), R.B.G. shows no signs of slowing down (just check out her workout regimen!). In her own words: "I will retire when it's time. And, when is it time? When I can't do the job full-steam." Mic drop.

Run for the hills—there might be free robots there! Residents of Brighton, England, have dubbed a local artist "The Iron Womble" for his habit of hiding upcycled, miniature robots all about the city. Shown above is a little metal man whose form could be interpreted two ways: either he's got soldered screws for legs and snipped wiring for arms, or he's holding some sort of whiskery prawn. Only "The Iron Womble"—or Professor Screwed, as he calls himself—would truly know. Each week, he produces a fresh batch of robo-vikings, tricera-tanks, and guitar-shredding automatons; and each creation is unique from the rest. Once a batch of bespoke sculpts is finished, the Prof hides the individuals about Brighton, tucking them behind leaves or ledges, before leaving hints to their whereabouts on Facebook. All the Prof asks in return for his creations is that whoever finds them posts a photo with them online. Who'd have thought… the robots don't really want a hostile takeover, just a selfie or two!

Below: robo-vikings; one of the many robots hidden in public; Professor Screwed posing with some of his creations.

Run for the hills—there might be free robots there! Residents of Brighton, England, have dubbed a local artist "The Iron Womble" for his habit of hiding upcycled, miniature robots all about the city. Shown above is a little metal man whose form could be interpreted two ways: either he's got soldered screws for legs and snipped wiring for arms, or he's holding some sort of whiskery prawn. Only "The Iron Womble"—or Professor Screwed, as he calls himself—would truly know. Each week, he produces a fresh batch of robo-vikings, tricera-tanks, and guitar-shredding automatons; and each creation is unique from the rest. Once a batch of bespoke sculpts is finished, the Prof hides the individuals about Brighton, tucking them behind leaves or ledges, before leaving hints to their whereabouts on Facebook. All the Prof asks in return for his creations is that whoever finds them posts a photo with them online. Who'd have thought… the robots don't really want a hostile takeover, just a selfie or two!

Below: robo-vikings; one of the many robots hidden in public; Professor Screwed posing with some of his creations.

It's been a bad few years for Italian banks. In 2016, bad loans in that country exceeded 300 billion Euros. Yikes. But there is one Italian bank that is immune to its country's current banking woes, thanks to accepting an innovative form of collateral: cheese wheels. Credito Emiliano is Italy's 14th largest bank, with assets of over 30 billion Euros. The bank is located in the province of Reggio Emilia, the home of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese production. To be classified as Parmigiano-Reggiano, the cheese needs to be aged for 18-36 months in strictly controlled conditions. Each wheel of parmesan, 18 inches in diameter and weighing 84 pounds (38 kg), is worth over one thousands dollars wholesale. If you are a banker, you can see where this is headed. The aging cheese makes a perfect form of collateral. It has a predictable value and is easy to liquidate. So, since 1953, Credito Emiliano has been accepting parmesan wheels as collateral for loans. Often from the parmesan producers themselves. Since the cheese needs to age anyway, the bank takes possession of the cheese for the life of the loan and stores it at a local cheese-storing facility. When the cheese is ready to be sold, the client repays the loan with the proceeds—or secures the loan with new cheese wheels. It may sound cheesy, but it's actually smart business. The bank makes a solid profit by dovetailing with the production cycle of the cheese producers. And with 360,000 wheels of cheese in storage, that's a nice "chunk" of business!

It's been a bad few years for Italian banks. In 2016, bad loans in that country exceeded 300 billion Euros. Yikes. But there is one Italian bank that is immune to its country's current banking woes, thanks to accepting an innovative form of collateral: cheese wheels. Credito Emiliano is Italy's 14th largest bank, with assets of over 30 billion Euros. The bank is located in the province of Reggio Emilia, the home of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese production. To be classified as Parmigiano-Reggiano, the cheese needs to be aged for 18-36 months in strictly controlled conditions. Each wheel of parmesan, 18 inches in diameter and weighing 84 pounds (38 kg), is worth over one thousands dollars wholesale. If you are a banker, you can see where this is headed. The aging cheese makes a perfect form of collateral. It has a predictable value and is easy to liquidate. So, since 1953, Credito Emiliano has been accepting parmesan wheels as collateral for loans. Often from the parmesan producers themselves. Since the cheese needs to age anyway, the bank takes possession of the cheese for the life of the loan and stores it at a local cheese-storing facility. When the cheese is ready to be sold, the client repays the loan with the proceeds—or secures the loan with new cheese wheels. It may sound cheesy, but it's actually smart business. The bank makes a solid profit by dovetailing with the production cycle of the cheese producers. And with 360,000 wheels of cheese in storage, that's a nice "chunk" of business!

Dean Martin didn't mince words. Annoyed by his son Dean Junior's fascination with young British upstarts the Beatles, he told him, "I'm gonna knock your little pallies off the charts." And he did. In August 1964, at the height of Beatlemania, Martin's new single Everybody Loves Somebody surpassed A Hard Day's Night to hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100. A perfectly-crafted cut of pop music, the song is an earworm with the uncanny ability to spread a positive mood in any setting. The tune had been kicking around nightclubs since the 1940s, waiting for the right singer and arrangement. Martin's recording did the job, with its modest instrumental accompaniment, wholesome backing choir, and string flourishes. It also helped the crooner climb out of an Italian-American pigeonhole by replacing That's Amore as his signature song. Everybody Loves Somebody's melody was even adapted as the theme song for The Dean Martin Show, cementing the connection between the song and the man. Watch Martin, who would have turned 100 today, perform the song on The Bob Hope Show. You'll see why we think he was the right singer for the job, too.

Dean Martin didn't mince words. Annoyed by his son Dean Junior's fascination with young British upstarts the Beatles, he told him, "I'm gonna knock your little pallies off the charts." And he did. In August 1964, at the height of Beatlemania, Martin's new single Everybody Loves Somebody surpassed A Hard Day's Night to hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100. A perfectly-crafted cut of pop music, the song is an earworm with the uncanny ability to spread a positive mood in any setting. The tune had been kicking around nightclubs since the 1940s, waiting for the right singer and arrangement. Martin's recording did the job, with its modest instrumental accompaniment, wholesome backing choir, and string flourishes. It also helped the crooner climb out of an Italian-American pigeonhole by replacing That's Amore as his signature song. Everybody Loves Somebody's melody was even adapted as the theme song for The Dean Martin Show, cementing the connection between the song and the man. Watch Martin, who would have turned 100 today, perform the song on The Bob Hope Show. You'll see why we think he was the right singer for the job, too.

Giovanni Giacomo Casanova was sentenced to five years of imprisonment on this day in 1755 for gambling and blasphemy. But of course he was: he was Casanova, after all, the dissolute philanderer who wooed over 120 women, from milkmaids to nuns to countesses—and a few men as well. But there's more to Casanova than meets the eye.

Casanova was born in Venice in 1725 into a family of actors. A sickly child prone to frequent nosebleeds, he was sent to another Italian city to improve his health. It was in the city of Padua where an 11-year-old Casanova had his first sexual encounter with a priest's sister, an experience he recalled fondly in his memoirs, and which he credited with sparking his lifelong obsession.

By the time Casanova returned to Venice, his wild side had been formed. However, many don't know that Casanova also had a sweeter side: His twelve-volume memoirs are both an account of his exploits and a love letter to women, with Casanova writing at length of his appreciation of women's personalities and intelligence. "Without speech, the pleasure of love is diminished by at least two-thirds,'' he wrote. Casanova stayed in touch with former lovers and respected his paramours' privacy, going to extreme lengths to conceal the names of women he slept with.

Later in life, Casanova worked as a spy and librarian. He struck up a friendship with French philosopher Voltaire in 1760, debated with Benjamin Franklin, and was asked to help Mozart with his opera Don Giovanni. He even worked on a translation of the Iliad. And as part of an amnesty deal for his bad deeds, he spied for Venetian inquisitors from 1774 to 1782 in order to return from exile to his hometown of Venice.

Casanova's sensitive and intellectual sides were buried in history until recent years, when the full manuscript of his twelve-volume, 3,500 page memoirs resurfaced. Scholars consider his memoirs an authoritative account of life in 18th-century Europe. Casanova moved from city to city to escape his debts, living in Paris, Prague, Vienna, and Dresden. The upside of this instability was that he documented life in several parts of Europe at a time when most people never traveled farther than 50 miles from their birthplace. So, we're sort of glad this playboy got around—we just wish his memoirs didn't go into so much detail.

Giovanni Giacomo Casanova was sentenced to five years of imprisonment on this day in 1755 for gambling and blasphemy. But of course he was: he was Casanova, after all, the dissolute philanderer who wooed over 120 women, from milkmaids to nuns to countesses—and a few men as well. But there's more to Casanova than meets the eye.

Casanova was born in Venice in 1725 into a family of actors. A sickly child prone to frequent nosebleeds, he was sent to another Italian city to improve his health. It was in the city of Padua where an 11-year-old Casanova had his first sexual encounter with a priest's sister, an experience he recalled fondly in his memoirs, and which he credited with sparking his lifelong obsession.

By the time Casanova returned to Venice, his wild side had been formed. However, many don't know that Casanova also had a sweeter side: His twelve-volume memoirs are both an account of his exploits and a love letter to women, with Casanova writing at length of his appreciation of women's personalities and intelligence. "Without speech, the pleasure of love is diminished by at least two-thirds,'' he wrote. Casanova stayed in touch with former lovers and respected his paramours' privacy, going to extreme lengths to conceal the names of women he slept with.

Later in life, Casanova worked as a spy and librarian. He struck up a friendship with French philosopher Voltaire in 1760, debated with Benjamin Franklin, and was asked to help Mozart with his opera Don Giovanni. He even worked on a translation of the Iliad. And as part of an amnesty deal for his bad deeds, he spied for Venetian inquisitors from 1774 to 1782 in order to return from exile to his hometown of Venice.

Casanova's sensitive and intellectual sides were buried in history until recent years, when the full manuscript of his twelve-volume, 3,500 page memoirs resurfaced. Scholars consider his memoirs an authoritative account of life in 18th-century Europe. Casanova moved from city to city to escape his debts, living in Paris, Prague, Vienna, and Dresden. The upside of this instability was that he documented life in several parts of Europe at a time when most people never traveled farther than 50 miles from their birthplace. So, we're sort of glad this playboy got around—we just wish his memoirs didn't go into so much detail.

Great music can be found in all corners of the world, even during World War II. For U.S. Army photojournalist Tony Vaccaro, that corner was an alleyway in Venice, Italy. Far removed from the bustling canals of the Floating City, The Violinist captures a lone musician practicing his craft between tall, centuries old-buildings in 1947. Off in the distance, a woman approaches to give money to the violinist—no doubt evidence his solos struck a chord. For Vaccaro, who was born on this day 95 years ago, the sight may have been one of the many reasons he adored the country where he spent his childhood. After his work with the army, Vaccaro would go on to become a prominent lifestyle photographer for Life magazine and have his life explored in an HBO documentary titled Underfire: The Untold Story of PFC Tony Vaccaro. Not bad for a guy who took over 8,000 photographs in Europe with a small $40 camera!

Below: two images taken by Viccaro in Rome, Italy: the Coliseum's massive archways, and a soldier in front of Piazza dell'Esedra.

Great music can be found in all corners of the world, even during World War II. For U.S. Army photojournalist Tony Vaccaro, that corner was an alleyway in Venice, Italy. Far removed from the bustling canals of the Floating City, The Violinist captures a lone musician practicing his craft between tall, centuries old-buildings in 1947. Off in the distance, a woman approaches to give money to the violinist—no doubt evidence his solos struck a chord. For Vaccaro, who was born on this day 95 years ago, the sight may have been one of the many reasons he adored the country where he spent his childhood. After his work with the army, Vaccaro would go on to become a prominent lifestyle photographer for Life magazine and have his life explored in an HBO documentary titled Underfire: The Untold Story of PFC Tony Vaccaro. Not bad for a guy who took over 8,000 photographs in Europe with a small $40 camera!

Below: two images taken by Viccaro in Rome, Italy: the Coliseum's massive archways, and a soldier in front of Piazza dell'Esedra.

Caravaggio had no time for fluff. Rather, the Italian master painted the uncompromised, unidealized truth. Not everyone was a fan. In 1602, the Roman church of San Luigi dei Francesi commissioned Caravaggio to complete a painting for the Contarelli Chapel. It was to depict St. Matthew writing the gospel, aided by an angel representing the word of God. Caravaggio knew Matthew had been an elderly, working-class man—definitely not someone accustomed to authoring giant texts. So the resulting figure's labored look, dirty feet, and awkward clutching of the book was, to the artist, an honest and worthy depiction. Caravaggio's use of harsh light also didn't do favors for Matthew's saintliness, instead accentuating his clumsiness. Upon delivery, the church was shocked at this "disrespectful" likeness of the saint. They even complained about the angel gently guiding Matthew in his task, like a teacher would a child. The artist went back to the drawing board, this time playing it safe with a more glorified version, and got the thumbs up. Both paintings are greatly executed, but we prefer the endearingly genuine original. Sadly, we'll never see it in person: the bombshell of 1602 was destroyed in a 1945 bombing.

Below: the second version that still hangs in the Contarelli Chapel, entitled The Inspiration of Saint Matthew

Caravaggio had no time for fluff. Rather, the Italian master painted the uncompromised, unidealized truth. Not everyone was a fan. In 1602, the Roman church of San Luigi dei Francesi commissioned Caravaggio to complete a painting for the Contarelli Chapel. It was to depict St. Matthew writing the gospel, aided by an angel representing the word of God. Caravaggio knew Matthew had been an elderly, working-class man—definitely not someone accustomed to authoring giant texts. So the resulting figure's labored look, dirty feet, and awkward clutching of the book was, to the artist, an honest and worthy depiction. Caravaggio's use of harsh light also didn't do favors for Matthew's saintliness, instead accentuating his clumsiness. Upon delivery, the church was shocked at this "disrespectful" likeness of the saint. They even complained about the angel gently guiding Matthew in his task, like a teacher would a child. The artist went back to the drawing board, this time playing it safe with a more glorified version, and got the thumbs up. Both paintings are greatly executed, but we prefer the endearingly genuine original. Sadly, we'll never see it in person: the bombshell of 1602 was destroyed in a 1945 bombing.

Below: the second version that still hangs in the Contarelli Chapel, entitled The Inspiration of Saint Matthew

Beware! It's the Ides of March. You can thank Shakespeare for our current association with this date and the assassination of Julius Caesar. His play, Julius Caesar, is responsible for most of our popular beliefs about Caesar and the Roman Empire, in general. But, of course, the Bard took many liberties. Not to mention he was working with sketchy historical facts to begin with. Caesar did seek the advice of a soothsayer regularly, and he did get a warning about his demise. But the soothsayer actually told him on the Ides of February—the ides being the midpoint of a Roman month—to be wary for the next thirty days, through the Ides of March. Historians believe this is because the soothsayer had many elite Roman clients, who had begun to turn on Caesar, and they likely entrusted the spiritual advisors with their closest held feelings. The soothsayer was trying to warn Caesar. And the date of the prophecy was no coincidence. Everybody in Rome knew that Caesar was embarking on a multi-year military campaign on March 18th. It would not only take him away from Rome, but it would strengthen his military might. Those wishing him out of power needed him dead before March 18th, making the Ides of March a convenient shorthand. It's very possible Caesar understood exactly what the soothsayer was saying. Still, even though Caesar was one of the most powerful men in the world, he could not avoid the conspiracy against him. Which, by the way, was really carried out more by Decimus than Brutus. But I guess to Shakespeare's ear, "Et tu, Decime" didn't have the same ring to it?

Beware! It's the Ides of March. You can thank Shakespeare for our current association with this date and the assassination of Julius Caesar. His play, Julius Caesar, is responsible for most of our popular beliefs about Caesar and the Roman Empire, in general. But, of course, the Bard took many liberties. Not to mention he was working with sketchy historical facts to begin with. Caesar did seek the advice of a soothsayer regularly, and he did get a warning about his demise. But the soothsayer actually told him on the Ides of February—the ides being the midpoint of a Roman month—to be wary for the next thirty days, through the Ides of March. Historians believe this is because the soothsayer had many elite Roman clients, who had begun to turn on Caesar, and they likely entrusted the spiritual advisors with their closest held feelings. The soothsayer was trying to warn Caesar. And the date of the prophecy was no coincidence. Everybody in Rome knew that Caesar was embarking on a multi-year military campaign on March 18th. It would not only take him away from Rome, but it would strengthen his military might. Those wishing him out of power needed him dead before March 18th, making the Ides of March a convenient shorthand. It's very possible Caesar understood exactly what the soothsayer was saying. Still, even though Caesar was one of the most powerful men in the world, he could not avoid the conspiracy against him. Which, by the way, was really carried out more by Decimus than Brutus. But I guess to Shakespeare's ear, "Et tu, Decime" didn't have the same ring to it?

Et tu, kitty? Thanks to archeologists, we now know where Julius Caesar was murdered on March 15th in 44 B.C.E—and today, the site is a cat refuge. Classical writers had long identified Rome's vast Theatre of Pompey as the site of the slaying. In 2012, archaeologists unearthed a concrete structure said to have been built by Caesar's successor, Augustus, to mark the exact assassination site. The ruins—located in an area called Largo di Torre Argentina—may be full of decaying walls and pillars, but they aren't abandoned: over 250 felines call the area home. Feral cats, a common site on Roman streets, began inhabiting the site after it was excavated. Their numbers quickly multiplied as local "cat ladies," known as gattare, began feeding them. Today, Torre Argentina is a cat sanctuary; animals are cared for and neutered to prevent overpopulation. The site is popular with tourists who come to enjoy the animals—along with the history. If Caesar's ghost still prowls his death site, chances are he appreciates all the furry, four-footed company.

Et tu, kitty? Thanks to archeologists, we now know where Julius Caesar was murdered on March 15th in 44 B.C.E—and today, the site is a cat refuge. Classical writers had long identified Rome's vast Theatre of Pompey as the site of the slaying. In 2012, archaeologists unearthed a concrete structure said to have been built by Caesar's successor, Augustus, to mark the exact assassination site. The ruins—located in an area called Largo di Torre Argentina—may be full of decaying walls and pillars, but they aren't abandoned: over 250 felines call the area home. Feral cats, a common site on Roman streets, began inhabiting the site after it was excavated. Their numbers quickly multiplied as local "cat ladies," known as gattare, began feeding them. Today, Torre Argentina is a cat sanctuary; animals are cared for and neutered to prevent overpopulation. The site is popular with tourists who come to enjoy the animals—along with the history. If Caesar's ghost still prowls his death site, chances are he appreciates all the furry, four-footed company.

No historic detail was lost on Vincenzo Camuccini. The 19th-century Italian painter spent years researching and drafting what would become his best-known work: a 13-by-22-foot painting depicting the assassination of Roman general and dictator Julius Caesar, complete with human figures as large as real people. Camuccini worked with an expert on Roman architecture to accurately depict the Theatre of Pompey, the site of Caesar's death. A statue of the theatre's namesake, the Roman general Caesar had defeated in civil war four years earlier, looms above the dying leader. Figures in the painting were modeled after busts of Roman leaders—some of which had been cast during their lives, over 1,700 years prior. Camuccini was wise to pay attention to detail, as he was taking a major risk with this painting; the young artist had previously limited himself to reproductions of others' work. His new foray had its fair share of hiccups: After the first completed version of Death of Caesar was panned for being too brightly colored, Camuccini destroyed it. He took a five-year hiatus from the work before finally repainting it to his satisfaction. Though he may not have fought on the battlefield like the leader who inspired him, Camuccini certainly had all the persistence of a soldier.

No historic detail was lost on Vincenzo Camuccini. The 19th-century Italian painter spent years researching and drafting what would become his best-known work: a 13-by-22-foot painting depicting the assassination of Roman general and dictator Julius Caesar, complete with human figures as large as real people. Camuccini worked with an expert on Roman architecture to accurately depict the Theatre of Pompey, the site of Caesar's death. A statue of the theatre's namesake, the Roman general Caesar had defeated in civil war four years earlier, looms above the dying leader. Figures in the painting were modeled after busts of Roman leaders—some of which had been cast during their lives, over 1,700 years prior. Camuccini was wise to pay attention to detail, as he was taking a major risk with this painting; the young artist had previously limited himself to reproductions of others' work. His new foray had its fair share of hiccups: After the first completed version of Death of Caesar was panned for being too brightly colored, Camuccini destroyed it. He took a five-year hiatus from the work before finally repainting it to his satisfaction. Though he may not have fought on the battlefield like the leader who inspired him, Camuccini certainly had all the persistence of a soldier.

The Candidate, from Alexandre Desplat's The Ides of March soundtrack for the 2011 film of the same name, befits the Shakespearean warning: Beware the Ides of March! The French composer's score is dark and moody, with a sinister, suspenseful theme woven through with hints of military fanfare. It's the perfect backdrop to a film that follows a young campaign manager's plunge from idealism as he encounters the treachery and cynicism that characterizes modern politics. The Candidate starts off slowly and builds over time, increasing in speed to create a sense of portent and urgency. In recent years, Desplat has become one of the most popular composers in Hollywood. He has demonstrated broad musical range with soundtracks for films as varied as The Imitation Game, Harry Potter, The King's Speech, and Fantastic Mr. Fox. Nominated for an Oscar nine times, he received his first Academy Award for The Grand Budapest Hotel in 2015. This year, Desplat took home his second Oscar for his score for The Shape of Water—proving that the Ides of March don't always mean misfortune.

The Candidate, from Alexandre Desplat's The Ides of March soundtrack for the 2011 film of the same name, befits the Shakespearean warning: Beware the Ides of March! The French composer's score is dark and moody, with a sinister, suspenseful theme woven through with hints of military fanfare. It's the perfect backdrop to a film that follows a young campaign manager's plunge from idealism as he encounters the treachery and cynicism that characterizes modern politics. The Candidate starts off slowly and builds over time, increasing in speed to create a sense of portent and urgency. In recent years, Desplat has become one of the most popular composers in Hollywood. He has demonstrated broad musical range with soundtracks for films as varied as The Imitation Game, Harry Potter, The King's Speech, and Fantastic Mr. Fox. Nominated for an Oscar nine times, he received his first Academy Award for The Grand Budapest Hotel in 2015. This year, Desplat took home his second Oscar for his score for The Shape of Water—proving that the Ides of March don't always mean misfortune.

The noted Roman general shrewdly allied himself with the common man while seizing power from the ruling classes.

Julius Caesar definitely knew how to see and conquer, but it took more than that to centralize control of the Roman Republic. Born into a patrician family, Caesar appealed to the masses to set himself apart from nobility (who were busy fighting amongst themselves). Though antagonizing his fellow blue bloods cost him his life, Caesar's style of power set the tone for the next 1,500 years of Roman history.

Born into a wealthy family believed to be descended from the goddess Aphrodite, Caesar was influenced early on by his uncle, the noted general Gaius Marius. When Caesar's father died unexpectedly, and Caesar became the head of household at 16, he was thrown squarely into the conflict of the day. Discord between his uncle, Gaius Marius, and another noble called Sulla had sparked civil war in Rome. When Sulla gained power, he quickly pursued Marius and his supporters; Caesar lost his inheritance and his privileges as a high priest of Jupiter.

Caesar's exile—which he imposed on himself for his own protection—ended up being the making of him; the young soldier distinguished himself in several military campaigns, including the battle to regain control of a port city on the island of Lesbos (in modern-day Greece). When he returned to Rome following the death of Sulla, Caesar worked in law, delivering orations that earned praise even from Cicero.
But this golden boy wasn't happy with such successes (or even his celebrated vanquishing of a pirate crew). Legend has it that when Caesar saw a statue of Alexander the Great while serving in Spain in his early 30s, he began crying. "Do you think I have not just cause to weep, when I consider that Alexander at my age had conquered so many nations, and I have all this time done nothing that is memorable?" he said.

He need not have feared; his ambition came to fruition—and then some. Caesar used his military victories, including the conquering of Gaul (France), to distinguish himself from other nobles and drum up support with the public. By his 50s, he had reached the position of dictator. Though it was typically considered a temporary slot, Caesar made it clear he intended to remain in the position for as long as possible, angering his peers and contributing to his assassination. This populist leader certainly knew his Greek mythology—but perhaps he'd forgotten the story of Icarus.

The noted Roman general shrewdly allied himself with the common man while seizing power from the ruling classes.

Julius Caesar definitely knew how to see and conquer, but it took more than that to centralize control of the Roman Republic. Born into a patrician family, Caesar appealed to the masses to set himself apart from nobility (who were busy fighting amongst themselves). Though antagonizing his fellow blue bloods cost him his life, Caesar's style of power set the tone for the next 1,500 years of Roman history.

Born into a wealthy family believed to be descended from the goddess Aphrodite, Caesar was influenced early on by his uncle, the noted general Gaius Marius. When Caesar's father died unexpectedly, and Caesar became the head of household at 16, he was thrown squarely into the conflict of the day. Discord between his uncle, Gaius Marius, and another noble called Sulla had sparked civil war in Rome. When Sulla gained power, he quickly pursued Marius and his supporters; Caesar lost his inheritance and his privileges as a high priest of Jupiter.

Caesar's exile—which he imposed on himself for his own protection—ended up being the making of him; the young soldier distinguished himself in several military campaigns, including the battle to regain control of a port city on the island of Lesbos (in modern-day Greece). When he returned to Rome following the death of Sulla, Caesar worked in law, delivering orations that earned praise even from Cicero.
But this golden boy wasn't happy with such successes (or even his celebrated vanquishing of a pirate crew). Legend has it that when Caesar saw a statue of Alexander the Great while serving in Spain in his early 30s, he began crying. "Do you think I have not just cause to weep, when I consider that Alexander at my age had conquered so many nations, and I have all this time done nothing that is memorable?" he said.

He need not have feared; his ambition came to fruition—and then some. Caesar used his military victories, including the conquering of Gaul (France), to distinguish himself from other nobles and drum up support with the public. By his 50s, he had reached the position of dictator. Though it was typically considered a temporary slot, Caesar made it clear he intended to remain in the position for as long as possible, angering his peers and contributing to his assassination. This populist leader certainly knew his Greek mythology—but perhaps he'd forgotten the story of Icarus.

Happy birthday, J. Fred Muggs! He's the chimpanzee who saved NBC's Today show from oblivion in 1953. The show had debuted in 1952 to tepid reviews and general bewilderment from the viewing public. Daytime TV was unheard of at the time. Watching television during the day was considered an act of depravity, and most network affiliates broadcast test color patterns until prime time. The Today show was aired live from New York City's RCA Exhibition Hall with windows looking out onto 49th Street. Often the broadcast included five or more minutes of nothing but people passing by on the street. It was sort of like a news plus variety show, but it went on a very long time. They broadcast for three hours, but the East Coast saw the first two hours and the West coast saw the last two hours. So guests in the first hour had to stick around to repeat their appearances in the third hour.

At first, things didn't go so well. NBC's news department refused to share their best footage, for fear that it would draw viewers from their evening news program. Ad sales were so dismal, the staff was sure it would be canceled. Instead, NBC executives decided it needed more silliness, given the popularity of shows like Howdy Doody. So they found a chimpanzee named J. Fred Muggs, dressed in his Sunday best, to join the cast as the co-anchor alongside (non-monkey) host Dave Garroway. Seriously. One of the newscasters quit in disgust and was replaced by Frank Blair, who stayed with the show for the next 22 years. That's because J. Fred became an overnight sensation, and ratings skyrocketed. Unfortunately, he became increasingly temperamental on air, throwing tantrums, attacking guests, and eventually viciously biting the comedienne Martha Raye after her on-air performance. He was replaced in 1957 with another chimp named Kokomo, but since 1958 there have been no more monkeys hosting the Today show. Well, I guess that's a matter of opinion.

Happy birthday, J. Fred Muggs! He's the chimpanzee who saved NBC's Today show from oblivion in 1953. The show had debuted in 1952 to tepid reviews and general bewilderment from the viewing public. Daytime TV was unheard of at the time. Watching television during the day was considered an act of depravity, and most network affiliates broadcast test color patterns until prime time. The Today show was aired live from New York City's RCA Exhibition Hall with windows looking out onto 49th Street. Often the broadcast included five or more minutes of nothing but people passing by on the street. It was sort of like a news plus variety show, but it went on a very long time. They broadcast for three hours, but the East Coast saw the first two hours and the West coast saw the last two hours. So guests in the first hour had to stick around to repeat their appearances in the third hour.

At first, things didn't go so well. NBC's news department refused to share their best footage, for fear that it would draw viewers from their evening news program. Ad sales were so dismal, the staff was sure it would be canceled. Instead, NBC executives decided it needed more silliness, given the popularity of shows like Howdy Doody. So they found a chimpanzee named J. Fred Muggs, dressed in his Sunday best, to join the cast as the co-anchor alongside (non-monkey) host Dave Garroway. Seriously. One of the newscasters quit in disgust and was replaced by Frank Blair, who stayed with the show for the next 22 years. That's because J. Fred became an overnight sensation, and ratings skyrocketed. Unfortunately, he became increasingly temperamental on air, throwing tantrums, attacking guests, and eventually viciously biting the comedienne Martha Raye after her on-air performance. He was replaced in 1957 with another chimp named Kokomo, but since 1958 there have been no more monkeys hosting the Today show. Well, I guess that's a matter of opinion.

Turning 70 today, American photographer James Nachtwey has devoted decades of his life to documenting tragedies, no matter the circumstances. Shown above, Nachtwey photographed an Afghani woman in 1996 grieving over her the grave of her brother: the victim of a Taliban rocket. After a half-decade of civil war in Afghanistan, the fundamentalist Taliban entered the capital of Kabul, appearing to be peace-bearing liberators. Instead, they imposed strict Islamic Law on Kabul's one million inhabitants, strong-arming women from schools and workplaces, and allotting men one month to grow beards. As gut-wrenching as the conflict was, Nachtwey was born to bear it witness. Inspired by the coverage of the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War, he taught himself photography and, in 1981, landed his first foreign assignment—documenting the Irish Republican Army's hunger strike in Northern Ireland. Since then, he's won the Robert Capa Gold Medal (five times) and the World Press Photo Award (twice). And despite suffering a grenade-inflicted injury during the 2003 U.S. invasion of Iraq, he's shown no sign of backing down. In his own words: "There is a job to be done… to record the truth."

Turning 70 today, American photographer James Nachtwey has devoted decades of his life to documenting tragedies, no matter the circumstances. Shown above, Nachtwey photographed an Afghani woman in 1996 grieving over her the grave of her brother: the victim of a Taliban rocket. After a half-decade of civil war in Afghanistan, the fundamentalist Taliban entered the capital of Kabul, appearing to be peace-bearing liberators. Instead, they imposed strict Islamic Law on Kabul's one million inhabitants, strong-arming women from schools and workplaces, and allotting men one month to grow beards. As gut-wrenching as the conflict was, Nachtwey was born to bear it witness. Inspired by the coverage of the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War, he taught himself photography and, in 1981, landed his first foreign assignment—documenting the Irish Republican Army's hunger strike in Northern Ireland. Since then, he's won the Robert Capa Gold Medal (five times) and the World Press Photo Award (twice). And despite suffering a grenade-inflicted injury during the 2003 U.S. invasion of Iraq, he's shown no sign of backing down. In his own words: "There is a job to be done… to record the truth."

Wow, this place is a dump… a gorgeous dump! Dutch artist Marjan Teeuwen eviscerates condemned buildings and reconfigures them into spellbinding installations she calls Destroyed Houses. Teeuwen—currently showing solo for the first time in America at New York's Bruce Silverstein Gallery—created the image above by boring holes through the walls of adjacent rooms of a dilapidated Russian home, and intricately layering assorted books, concrete, and other detritus within. She took a photo of the illusory scene and titled it Destroyed House Krasnoyarsk 1 since the site, like all her Destroyed Houses, was eventually demolished—a sad fact, given they take roughly a year to complete. During that year, she commands a retinue of contractors and technical assistants who help her covert cinder blocks into teetering totems, tiles into densely layered mosaics, and fallen ceilings into precarious catwalks. Working in a condemned building is dangerous—especially when playing Jenga with its walls—but Teeuwen craves the thrill of the undertaking. "I'm attracted to tasks that seem too large for me," she says, "tasks that are almost impossible." It seems Teeuwen takes the term "house flipping" quite literally!

Wow, this place is a dump… a gorgeous dump! Dutch artist Marjan Teeuwen eviscerates condemned buildings and reconfigures them into spellbinding installations she calls Destroyed Houses. Teeuwen—currently showing solo for the first time in America at New York's Bruce Silverstein Gallery—created the image above by boring holes through the walls of adjacent rooms of a dilapidated Russian home, and intricately layering assorted books, concrete, and other detritus within. She took a photo of the illusory scene and titled it Destroyed House Krasnoyarsk 1 since the site, like all her Destroyed Houses, was eventually demolished—a sad fact, given they take roughly a year to complete. During that year, she commands a retinue of contractors and technical assistants who help her covert cinder blocks into teetering totems, tiles into densely layered mosaics, and fallen ceilings into precarious catwalks. Working in a condemned building is dangerous—especially when playing Jenga with its walls—but Teeuwen craves the thrill of the undertaking. "I'm attracted to tasks that seem too large for me," she says, "tasks that are almost impossible." It seems Teeuwen takes the term "house flipping" quite literally!

A music legend who's been around as long as Quincy Jones is likely to have a lifetime of stories to tell. In preparation for his 85th birthday, Jones recently gave revealing interviews to Vulture and GQ, detailing the ups and downs of his 70-year career. One of the most revelatory statements was about his production work on Michael Jackson's Thriller, where Jones claimed Billie Jean's iconic bass line was lifted from Donna Summer's 1982 single, State of Independence. But was it really? Upon first listen, Summer's track is upbeat with a bassline that sounds faster than Billie Jean's, though when slowed down, State of Independence sounds incredibly similar to Jackson's hit. Given that Jones produced both tracks within a year of each other, and recruited bassist Louis Johnson to lay down funky riffs underneath them, it's not unlikely that there would be strong similarities between the two. Regardless, Summer's track received over 150,000 streams after Jones' interview, giving the disco queen's song a second life. And Jones? His daughters—who've jokingly nicknamed him "Loose Lips"—helped ensure it'll be at least another 85 years between his next tell-all interview!

A music legend who's been around as long as Quincy Jones is likely to have a lifetime of stories to tell. In preparation for his 85th birthday, Jones recently gave revealing interviews to Vulture and GQ, detailing the ups and downs of his 70-year career. One of the most revelatory statements was about his production work on Michael Jackson's Thriller, where Jones claimed Billie Jean's iconic bass line was lifted from Donna Summer's 1982 single, State of Independence. But was it really? Upon first listen, Summer's track is upbeat with a bassline that sounds faster than Billie Jean's, though when slowed down, State of Independence sounds incredibly similar to Jackson's hit. Given that Jones produced both tracks within a year of each other, and recruited bassist Louis Johnson to lay down funky riffs underneath them, it's not unlikely that there would be strong similarities between the two. Regardless, Summer's track received over 150,000 streams after Jones' interview, giving the disco queen's song a second life. And Jones? His daughters—who've jokingly nicknamed him "Loose Lips"—helped ensure it'll be at least another 85 years between his next tell-all interview!

"I think there are some players born to play ball," Joe "Joltin' Joe" Dimaggio once said. Indeed, he was one of them. Dimaggio, who died last weekend in 1999, still holds the Major League hitting streak record he set in 1941, having landed a hit in 56 consecutive games. But sadly for the women Dimaggio loved, he swung on and off the field with equal fervor.

Born into a family of poor Sicilian immigrants in San Francisco, Dimaggio matured into his generation's most famous baseball player—a spry outfielder with formidable batting skills. He started and ended his 13-year career with the Yankees, winning nine World Series championships. And because it was the so-called Golden Age of Baseball, he was also celebrity off the field—practically royalty.

As a highly-desired bachelor, Dimaggio sank his teeth into a decadent nightlife. In 1937, he met the beautiful actress Dorothy Arnold on a film set. The two fell in love and were married by 1939, Arnold foregoing her dreams of Hollywood. Dimaggio, however, could not relinquish the nightlife, even when Mrs. Dimaggio birthed his only child, Joe III. They divorced in 1944.

From there, Dimaggio's behavior only worsened. He managed to finagle a dinner date with Marilyn Monroe, and the two married in 1954. But he was in for a rude awakening. Unlike with Arnold, there was absolutely no way Monroe would become his doting housewife. Her sex-symbol persona bowled him over, and he became jealous—even violent.

During the filming of Monroe's iconic subway vent scene for The Seven-Year Itch, Dimaggio turned animalistic. On set in a busy New York street, 5,000 onlookers hooted and catcalled as Monroe's white dress was blown upwards. Afterward, Dimaggio strong-armed Monroe back to their hotel room to start such an explosive fight, hotel guests and management worried "someone was getting badly hurt." Marilyn's acting coach tried to intervene, but the baseball player drove her away.

The next day, Monroe emerged with bruises all over her shoulders and back, and in order to continue filming, she was caked in makeup. Less than a month later, she ended their 274-day marriage, though the two would rekindle their love shortly before she died in 1962 at just 36 years old. Shattered and alone, Dimaggio—perhaps a beast finally tamed—had flowers delivered to her gravesite thrice weekly for two decades, never to marry again.

"I think there are some players born to play ball," Joe "Joltin' Joe" Dimaggio once said. Indeed, he was one of them. Dimaggio, who died last weekend in 1999, still holds the Major League hitting streak record he set in 1941, having landed a hit in 56 consecutive games. But sadly for the women Dimaggio loved, he swung on and off the field with equal fervor.

Born into a family of poor Sicilian immigrants in San Francisco, Dimaggio matured into his generation's most famous baseball player—a spry outfielder with formidable batting skills. He started and ended his 13-year career with the Yankees, winning nine World Series championships. And because it was the so-called Golden Age of Baseball, he was also celebrity off the field—practically royalty.

As a highly-desired bachelor, Dimaggio sank his teeth into a decadent nightlife. In 1937, he met the beautiful actress Dorothy Arnold on a film set. The two fell in love and were married by 1939, Arnold foregoing her dreams of Hollywood. Dimaggio, however, could not relinquish the nightlife, even when Mrs. Dimaggio birthed his only child, Joe III. They divorced in 1944.

From there, Dimaggio's behavior only worsened. He managed to finagle a dinner date with Marilyn Monroe, and the two married in 1954. But he was in for a rude awakening. Unlike with Arnold, there was absolutely no way Monroe would become his doting housewife. Her sex-symbol persona bowled him over, and he became jealous—even violent.

During the filming of Monroe's iconic subway vent scene for The Seven-Year Itch, Dimaggio turned animalistic. On set in a busy New York street, 5,000 onlookers hooted and catcalled as Monroe's white dress was blown upwards. Afterward, Dimaggio strong-armed Monroe back to their hotel room to start such an explosive fight, hotel guests and management worried "someone was getting badly hurt." Marilyn's acting coach tried to intervene, but the baseball player drove her away.

The next day, Monroe emerged with bruises all over her shoulders and back, and in order to continue filming, she was caked in makeup. Less than a month later, she ended their 274-day marriage, though the two would rekindle their love shortly before she died in 1962 at just 36 years old. Shattered and alone, Dimaggio—perhaps a beast finally tamed—had flowers delivered to her gravesite thrice weekly for two decades, never to marry again.

The Nazi army wasn't the only scourge to advance on Poland in 1939. An epidemic of rabies—carried by the beautiful but vicious red fox—arrived and began plaguing Europe. At the time the disease was almost always fatal to infected humans, unless they received an extremely expensive vaccine immediately. Rabies continued to march west through Europe, infecting red fox populations a few dozen kilometers further in each year. In 1967, rabies reached the foxes of Switzerland. Swiss immunologists concluded they needed to target the infected foxes, not just the infected people. At first they attempted to poison or shoot the foxes. Then they tried capturing and immunizing them by hand. Both methods were extremely costly and ineffective. So Swiss scientists began trying to have the foxes immunize themselves. By 1971, they had successfully implanted an oral form of the vaccine into bait. After failing to attract enough foxes with dog biscuits, sausages, and eggs, they hit upon the idea of using disembodied chicken heads with a capsule full of vaccine hidden under their skin. Sure enough, their tests proved that no fox could resist a bloody chicken head on the side of the road! In 1978, a veterinarian from the University of Bern conducted the first live trial by scattering 4,000 chicken heads along the shores of Lake Geneva—at the time, the front line of the rabies outbreak. It worked! Between 1979 and 1996, more than 2.5 million vaccinated chicken heads rained down from helicopters and airplanes flying over the Swiss countryside. The last case of rabies was reported in 1998. Meaning this year, Switzerland is celebrating its twentieth anniversary of becoming a rabies-free nation. I guess you could say they successfully outfoxed it?

The Nazi army wasn't the only scourge to advance on Poland in 1939. An epidemic of rabies—carried by the beautiful but vicious red fox—arrived and began plaguing Europe. At the time the disease was almost always fatal to infected humans, unless they received an extremely expensive vaccine immediately. Rabies continued to march west through Europe, infecting red fox populations a few dozen kilometers further in each year. In 1967, rabies reached the foxes of Switzerland. Swiss immunologists concluded they needed to target the infected foxes, not just the infected people. At first they attempted to poison or shoot the foxes. Then they tried capturing and immunizing them by hand. Both methods were extremely costly and ineffective. So Swiss scientists began trying to have the foxes immunize themselves. By 1971, they had successfully implanted an oral form of the vaccine into bait. After failing to attract enough foxes with dog biscuits, sausages, and eggs, they hit upon the idea of using disembodied chicken heads with a capsule full of vaccine hidden under their skin. Sure enough, their tests proved that no fox could resist a bloody chicken head on the side of the road! In 1978, a veterinarian from the University of Bern conducted the first live trial by scattering 4,000 chicken heads along the shores of Lake Geneva—at the time, the front line of the rabies outbreak. It worked! Between 1979 and 1996, more than 2.5 million vaccinated chicken heads rained down from helicopters and airplanes flying over the Swiss countryside. The last case of rabies was reported in 1998. Meaning this year, Switzerland is celebrating its twentieth anniversary of becoming a rabies-free nation. I guess you could say they successfully outfoxed it?

This sci-fi movie bent the rules of Sade's universe! The famously reclusive Nigerian-British singer-songwriter broke a seven-year hiatus to record Flower of the Universe for the soundtrack of A Wrinkle In Time, released Friday. Sade's soulful vocals and a finger-picked acoustic guitar arrangement create an otherworldly feel quite fitting for a film set in the far reaches of the universe. The lyrics offer comfort and reassurance to the movie's 13-year-old heroine as she travels from planet to planet to find her missing father. Sade is best known for 1980s hits like Smooth Operator and Your Love Is King. But she's also a mother, an experience she drew on as she crafted lines like, "When you sleep softly the angels come / Like diamonds, like my love / They want to know it's true / There's someone in the world, lovely as you." Sade isn't the only female powerhouse involved; director Ava DuVernay also tapped Oprah Winfrey, Reese Witherspoon, and Mindy Kaling for the movie she calls a love letter to young people. We're all for something that encourages girls to shoot for the stars—quite literally!

This sci-fi movie bent the rules of Sade's universe! The famously reclusive Nigerian-British singer-songwriter broke a seven-year hiatus to record Flower of the Universe for the soundtrack of A Wrinkle In Time, released Friday. Sade's soulful vocals and a finger-picked acoustic guitar arrangement create an otherworldly feel quite fitting for a film set in the far reaches of the universe. The lyrics offer comfort and reassurance to the movie's 13-year-old heroine as she travels from planet to planet to find her missing father. Sade is best known for 1980s hits like Smooth Operator and Your Love Is King. But she's also a mother, an experience she drew on as she crafted lines like, "When you sleep softly the angels come / Like diamonds, like my love / They want to know it's true / There's someone in the world, lovely as you." Sade isn't the only female powerhouse involved; director Ava DuVernay also tapped Oprah Winfrey, Reese Witherspoon, and Mindy Kaling for the movie she calls a love letter to young people. We're all for something that encourages girls to shoot for the stars—quite literally!

Isn't this backseat snuggle-fest the most adorable thing ever? Though Jo-Anne McArthur's Pikin and Appolinaire didn't win the 2017 Wildlife Photographer of the Year Competition's grand prize, the shot certainly stole the People's Choice. It shows Pikin, a young lowland gorilla, in the arms of her devoted caretaker, Appolinaire Ndohoudou. McArthur, a wildlife photographer who was doing volunteer work, witnessed Pikin's transportation across Cameroon by Ape Action Africa—a nonprofit determined to protect great apes. During the car ride, Pikin awoke despite being sedated—and unexpectedly reached out for a hug. Gentle-hearted Pikin had been previously rescued from poachers by Ape Action Africa. During her recuperation, she grew deeply attached to Ndohoudou, even becoming jealous when other apes attempted to hug him. Sadly, the photo is a sensitive subject for Ndohoudou; not long after Pikin reached her destination, she suffered an unexpected mortal injury. "She really loved me and I loved her," said Ndohoudou. "I was her father, I belonged to her." He can take comfort knowing Pikin's final days were spent with family.

Below: other Wildlife Photographer of the Year submissions that won other categories: The night raider by Marcio Cabral; Children of the rainforest by Charlie Hamilton James; and Roller rider by Lakshitha Karunarathna.

Isn't this backseat snuggle-fest the most adorable thing ever? Though Jo-Anne McArthur's Pikin and Appolinaire didn't win the 2017 Wildlife Photographer of the Year Competition's grand prize, the shot certainly stole the People's Choice. It shows Pikin, a young lowland gorilla, in the arms of her devoted caretaker, Appolinaire Ndohoudou. McArthur, a wildlife photographer who was doing volunteer work, witnessed Pikin's transportation across Cameroon by Ape Action Africa—a nonprofit determined to protect great apes. During the car ride, Pikin awoke despite being sedated—and unexpectedly reached out for a hug. Gentle-hearted Pikin had been previously rescued from poachers by Ape Action Africa. During her recuperation, she grew deeply attached to Ndohoudou, even becoming jealous when other apes attempted to hug him. Sadly, the photo is a sensitive subject for Ndohoudou; not long after Pikin reached her destination, she suffered an unexpected mortal injury. "She really loved me and I loved her," said Ndohoudou. "I was her father, I belonged to her." He can take comfort knowing Pikin's final days were spent with family.

Below: other Wildlife Photographer of the Year submissions that won other categories: The night raider by Marcio Cabral; Children of the rainforest by Charlie Hamilton James; and Roller rider by Lakshitha Karunarathna.

Grab a mitt and throw on a cap—let's head to a baseball… exhibit. Baseball season kicks off this month, and we're celebrating by taking a looking at the T206 Honus Wagner, known as the "Holy Grail" of baseball cards for its unrivaled worth. The coveted rectangle depicts dapper Hall of Famer and Pittsburgh Pirates shortstop, Honus Wagner. Its graphic design sure is bland, but that's because it was made using the lithographic process—where water keeps oil color from spreading. The process had to be repeated for every color and feature, meaning mass-production would've been a nightmare if craftsmen attempted to embellish the borders (or make Wagner holographic). The American Tobacco Company initially concocted the card as a ploy to sell cigarettes to children; but unlike most players, Wagner didn't condone smoking. He demanded his card be pulled from circulation in 1911, the reason why under 70 of them exist today. Wagner's card flew under the radar until 1991, when former hockey player Wayne Gretzky purchased one for $451,000. The price tag has risen since then; in 2016, one sold for a record $3.12 million. Surprisingly, the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a Wagner—the cherry on top of its 30,000-strong baseball card collection!

Grab a mitt and throw on a cap—let's head to a baseball… exhibit. Baseball season kicks off this month, and we're celebrating by taking a looking at the T206 Honus Wagner, known as the "Holy Grail" of baseball cards for its unrivaled worth. The coveted rectangle depicts dapper Hall of Famer and Pittsburgh Pirates shortstop, Honus Wagner. Its graphic design sure is bland, but that's because it was made using the lithographic process—where water keeps oil color from spreading. The process had to be repeated for every color and feature, meaning mass-production would've been a nightmare if craftsmen attempted to embellish the borders (or make Wagner holographic). The American Tobacco Company initially concocted the card as a ploy to sell cigarettes to children; but unlike most players, Wagner didn't condone smoking. He demanded his card be pulled from circulation in 1911, the reason why under 70 of them exist today. Wagner's card flew under the radar until 1991, when former hockey player Wayne Gretzky purchased one for $451,000. The price tag has risen since then; in 2016, one sold for a record $3.12 million. Surprisingly, the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a Wagner—the cherry on top of its 30,000-strong baseball card collection!

Emil von Behring discovered an immunization for diphtheria, a disease known as "the strangling angel of children."

Emil von Behring's isn't a household name—but it certainly should be. In 1890, the German physiologist developed a vaccination against diphtheria, a fatal disease particularly deadly to children. The scientist, born 164 years ago this week, earned the Nobel Prize and a royal title for his life-saving discovery.

As a youth, von Behring almost became a man of God instead of a scientist. One of 13 siblings in a poor family, von Behring was forced to pursue theology instead of medicine because of financial limitations. Fortunately, a mentor recognized von Behring's scientific gifts and helped him earn a scholarship to the Army Medical College.

During his training, von Behring witnessed many patients suffering from sepsis, a life-threatening illness caused by the body's response to an infection, started conducting research on treatment methods. His experiments led to a discovery of a substance resistant to the bacterial infection tetanus. He next hypothesized that antitoxins extracted from an animal resistant to diphtheria could be used as a therapeutic serum to cure the disease. He and his colleague, Shibasaburo Kitasato, initially experimented on rats, guinea pigs, and rabbits. In 1891, a child suffering from diphtheria was treated with the therapeutic serum for the first time. Though the treatment was effective, it was temporary; von Behring was determined to create a vaccination to prevent the disease altogether. He finally did so in 1913.

It hard for those of us who grew up with vaccines to understand how monumental von Behring's discovery was. Diphtheria used to be known as "the strangler," because it creates a thick film in the throat that makes it difficult to breathe. In Germany alone, an estimated 50,000 children died of diphtheria each year before von Behring's discovery. In the U.S., there were 206,000 cases of diphtheria in 1921, before the vaccine was widely available. The number of cases dropped sharply later that decade, after immunizations began.

Von Behring won the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1901, the very first year the Prize was awarded. He was also granted Prussian nobility, which allowed him to add the "von" to his name. But his greatest distinction, widely recognized today or not, is as the "savior of children"—countless children, past, present, and for years to come.

Emil von Behring discovered an immunization for diphtheria, a disease known as "the strangling angel of children."

Emil von Behring's isn't a household name—but it certainly should be. In 1890, the German physiologist developed a vaccination against diphtheria, a fatal disease particularly deadly to children. The scientist, born 164 years ago this week, earned the Nobel Prize and a royal title for his life-saving discovery.

As a youth, von Behring almost became a man of God instead of a scientist. One of 13 siblings in a poor family, von Behring was forced to pursue theology instead of medicine because of financial limitations. Fortunately, a mentor recognized von Behring's scientific gifts and helped him earn a scholarship to the Army Medical College.

During his training, von Behring witnessed many patients suffering from sepsis, a life-threatening illness caused by the body's response to an infection, started conducting research on treatment methods. His experiments led to a discovery of a substance resistant to the bacterial infection tetanus. He next hypothesized that antitoxins extracted from an animal resistant to diphtheria could be used as a therapeutic serum to cure the disease. He and his colleague, Shibasaburo Kitasato, initially experimented on rats, guinea pigs, and rabbits. In 1891, a child suffering from diphtheria was treated with the therapeutic serum for the first time. Though the treatment was effective, it was temporary; von Behring was determined to create a vaccination to prevent the disease altogether. He finally did so in 1913.

It hard for those of us who grew up with vaccines to understand how monumental von Behring's discovery was. Diphtheria used to be known as "the strangler," because it creates a thick film in the throat that makes it difficult to breathe. In Germany alone, an estimated 50,000 children died of diphtheria each year before von Behring's discovery. In the U.S., there were 206,000 cases of diphtheria in 1921, before the vaccine was widely available. The number of cases dropped sharply later that decade, after immunizations began.

Von Behring won the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1901, the very first year the Prize was awarded. He was also granted Prussian nobility, which allowed him to add the "von" to his name. But his greatest distinction, widely recognized today or not, is as the "savior of children"—countless children, past, present, and for years to come.

Pinch us! This ethereal image by Murray Fredericks makes us feel as though we're about to step into a dream within a dream. The Australian photographer uses a propped-up mirror to reflect an alternative perspective in his barren landscapes. The image above, titled Mirror 18, was taken in the middle of Western Australia's Lake Eyre as part of Fredericks' ongoing series, Vanity. The lake's shallow waters enable Fredericks to lug his equipment to its center and set up shop, sometimes for hours at a time. Mirror 18 captures the saline lake's surreal rosy hue, which is caused by the algae Dunaliella salina; the color is a perfect complement to the cotton candy clouds overhead. Enhancing the photo's dreamlike feel is the surface it's printed on: soft cotton rag, rather than traditional photo paper. We're loving the serenity of it all… please don't wake us up!

Fredericks is showing Vanity at Hamiltons Gallery in London through June 17. Check out an entrancing video of his process below.